too glad to help her, but, as you see"--and he made a gesture by which
Shelton observed that he had parted from his waistcoat--"I am not
Rothschild. She has been abandoned by the man who brought her over to
Dover under promise of marriage. Look"--and by a subtle flicker of his
eyes he marked how the two ladies had edged away from the French girl
"they take good care not to let their garments touch her. They are
virtuous women. How fine a thing is virtue, sir! and finer to know you
have it, especially when you are never likely to be tempted."

Shelton was unable to repress a smile; and when he smiled his face grew
soft.

"Haven't you observed," went on the youthful foreigner, "that those who
by temperament and circumstance are worst fitted to pronounce judgment
are usually the first to judge? The judgments of Society are always
childish, seeing that it's composed for the most part of individuals who
have never smelt the fire. And look at this: they who have money run too
great a risk of parting with it if they don't accuse the penniless of
being rogues and imbeciles."

Shelton was startled, and not only by an outburst of philosophy from an
utter stranger in poor clothes, but at this singular wording of his
own private thoughts. Stifling his sense of the unusual for the queer
attraction this young man inspired, he said:

"I suppose you're a stranger over here?"

"I've been in England seven months, but not yet in London," replied
the other. "I count on doing some good there--it is time!" A bitter and
pathetic smile showed for a second on his lips. "It won't be my fault if